


This Is The Part

by facade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mature Emotional Content, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, POV Third Person Limited, POV Third Person Limited (Cristiano: Part 1), POV Third Person Limited (Sergio: Part 2)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-09 21:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10421910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facade/pseuds/facade
Summary: This is the part where he’s supposed to say ‘goodbye’





	1. This Is The Part

It’s a sound most familiar and yet it seems so mesmerizingly foreign as it finds him. Like the dripping of the sink’s faucet. Like the skip on that Beatles record just after the one minute mark. It’s a feeling two seconds from becoming home – consistent, steady – yet he’s always found himself at war with all things considered domestic, at war with the warmth and forever apprehensive of the comfort and so, by nature, he finds himself hesitant as the feeling consumes him. In the past, in a time not so far beyond yesterday, there thrives a time when he would have attempted to run from this moment, a time when he would have honeyed his words just so, when he would have softened his gaze in such a way that his desperate pleas would actually sound desperate – apprehensive, at the very least – as they found the other. (How the mighty have fallen). Moments encased to memory by a past not so far off yesterday have seen him on his knees, pleading, saying anything because maybe if he could just… then, perhaps, they could…? He would have said anything, would have done anything in that past, would have attempted to sway this there or there, anywhere but here and by any means possible. Somewhere in the past. Somewhere encased within a memory made not so far off yesterday. Somewhere, on a day that isn’t today.

A breath drawn and a moment taken, a moment wherein he simply asks if there’s anything he could possibly do that could change the course of the tomorrow he had once fought so desperately against though, there is something missing from within the tones of his voice – the want, the need, the desire. There is something missing but he hasn’t the time. “What can I do?” He shakes his head as his voice finds his own ears as something flat, his expressions having been dulled and drained in the passage of these hours as his energies seem to have already forfeited the notion of closure, have become lost elsewhere within himself and he can’t be bothered to rally them towards what is the inevitable. A chuckle without an atmosphere of joy, a shake of the head but not in response to the questions posed; the other is silent for the first time within these past two hours. No. He had needed his silence then; he doesn’t need it now. So, he asks once more, sighs as the words part from his lips a second time because – ((of course, he’s sure)) – he’s always sure. This is the part where he’s supposed to breakdown.

“I’ll pack my things,” and his voice is steady; he could just as easily be asking the other if he remembered to check the mail or picked up the milk from the market. He doesn’t like it but in this instance, in this instance his actions speak louder than those voice-tied thoughts. He takes a few essentials – his toothbrush and a few articles of clothing – but everything else… He leaves his sweater, the oversized blue one that Sergio wears more often than he cares to admit, leaves that album and that book… but he takes that over washed red shirt with the bleach stains on it from a drawer opposite of his, takes a few things of his that he couldn’t bear to part with just in case the ellipses of those ‘what ifs’ find the definite. He takes an hour to find ten things – three things of his own, four of his, one scent, and two mental pictures – and he takes another two to leave the driveway… but that’s all he takes.

It was a ‘flat tire’ last time so he goes with ‘engine trouble’ this time, forever grateful that Sergio doesn’t know the slightest about car engines or else that unplugged battery would give him away. They laugh under the hood of the car – he always tries to make this amicable – while tinkering with a few things he knows he has no business touching, and he wonders why this can’t be enough... Why can’t it be this easy? They could laugh at their problems and all that they fail to understand rather than fight about them and maybe, just maybe... They could stay here, in this moment, or they could bring it with them, within them. If only… They could… Sergio’s giving him that look now, that pain-filled look that’s mixed with longing, that look that tells him that Sergio isn’t as sure as he’s let on… He knows that Sergio will panic soon, that he will back out of that feeling and will offer to call a tow truck soon and that’s when he knows it’s time. He has his epiphany, his moment of ‘genius’ (wherein he reconnects the terminals to the posts) and starts the car, manages to smile at the sound of faux applause as he pulls out of the driveway. This is the part where he’s supposed to say ‘goodbye’.

It only takes him three days to leave the couch this time, three days as he hadn’t showered the day prior and day four of his own stench hurts a bit more than his figurative heart at this point in time. The water is warmer than his thoughts, the lather soothing and he thinks to cry for the first time since; he’s been overwhelmed with the need, has tried countless times and yet, until now, until this moment he could never manage. It was almost as if he was too full, as if there was too much to release and it had all been left to clog within his chest, at the base of his throat until, until, until… The explosion is controlled, restricted to throaty sobs and dragged out sniffles, to a burning sensation within his chest and a dryness as his eyes fill with water both distilled and salty. He’s never cried beautifully – not over things that matter this much, at least – but the foggy image he captures of himself within the steamed mirror is too much, too conflicting and it frustrates him to no end.

They say that memories are romanticized with the passage of time, that we age simply because time gradually drains us of all life if only to fuel the vibrancy of the past… but the passing minutes only seem to be tainting theirs… and he can’t look at himself. Eyes close, breath deepening. He’s already made it three days. This is the part where he’s supposed push.

It takes him eight days to find the warm embrace of a friend, eight days to find salvation buried somewhere between Ricardo’s shoulder and neck. Sincerity has abandoned the fill of the other’s gaze, it had left long ago between that time and the other… but he’s never considered it as a loss. No, he actually prefers his Ricardo this way; he finds a comfort in the honesty of it all, finds ground in the jaded expressions of his friend but he could never admit to such things. He both hopes and worries that the muscles of his heart mirror those in Ricardo’s expressions. He hopes. He fears. An under zealous conversation following a path of ‘you don’t understand… but let me make you’ followed by a look of ‘you can’t be this blind’. Whispers of comfort and warm embraces, silent apologies. He tries because maybe this time…? He tries… but he doesn’t; Ricardo never tries. He wonders if they’re just going through the motions now. Ricardo insists that the motions are all ‘they’ have left. Ricardo’s right but he’d never confess to such a thing. He can’t because maybe…? What if…? …this time…? This is the part where he’s supposed to concede to finality.

He fills the days that follow with training and food from every corner of the earth and beyond, with desperate phone calls at ungodly hours and heartbroken letters, with letters fueled, licked, and sealed with inebriated regrets and has-beens. The tears smear the ink more often than not, though they fall from many places – nostalgia, joy, hysteria nonetheless – he never regrets the humanity the salty wet gives his words... Not all that he feels can be translated, not into words, and he can't so easily be read. When the morning comes, when the sun rises to find him in his chosen state of debauchery, he’ll swear to all of the gods in both heaven and hell that he’ll do better – ((next time)). A postage stamp to place his confessions and his wishes, his hopes and his nightmares within the touch of Sevilla, a postage stamp withheld but he swears that next time… ((Next time)). He’ll put himself in an envelope if he would only ask. He’ll try – really try, this time – to tell him what he’s thinking, to tell him what he’s feeling… ((next time)). His phone rings. His heart drops. ((Next time)). This is the part where he’s supposed to choose: fight or surrender.

It’s only taken thirty-two days for the call to come this time, it only takes thirty-two days for Sergio to miss him and his head spins. He wants to talk… but so does he. He wants to understand… but he could never because he doesn’t even think that he… They decide on coffee later in the afternoon. He chuckles as they do and so does he. They decide on coffee but they never drink the coffee. He’ll take the chamomile tea and he’ll take the hot chocolate, perhaps a Green Tea but they decide on coffee later in the afternoon. He sits across from him but Sergio likes to be close, moves himself to the chair just beside himself and he smiles that smile. It’s the usual apology and it’s the same explanation, the same admission of guilt with the same type of blame shifting… Until he asks how he’s been. Until he touches his hand like that. Until he looks at him in that way. He pauses because this, this is the part where he loses him.

Maybe not today, maybe not next time but... Eventually the thought will find the words. Eventually the words will find a path from his mind to the part of his lips, from the part of his lips to their reality. Eventually the truth will fill the space between him and him and he can’t… This is the part where he loses him, it just can’t be today. One day, not far from today – ((next time)) – the words will slip and Sergio will know, he’ll finally know that they compare to a rollercoaster with more than just their rises and falls. He’ll know that they are steady in that they are unsteady, that they have managed to find themselves broken yet functionally kept. One day, Sergio will know that he’s merely been too weak to turn them off, that he’s been too weak to simply leave them behind but Sergio will know that he’s known all of this time. One day, not far from today – ((next time)) – he’ll admit that he’s tired of the same ride, he’ll admit that he’s tired of ending up where they had started, of starting where they had ended. One day, he’ll confess that he’s outgrown the rides and that he holds no interest in yo-yos, that he has no fondness of boomerangs nor of NASCAR. They are a dripping faucet. They are a flickering light. One day, not far from today – ((next time)) – he’ll look Sergio in the eyes while holding him close and he’ll finally whisper that unspoken truth, that one little secret that has always torn them apart from the inside out, that one little secret that brings them back together… ((I would have loved you five years from now)). Eventually. One day. Not today...

…because this is the part where he holds his tongue. This is the part where he silences his feelings and stills those racing thoughts because he’s so close. He's two seconds from home. “I’ve missed you.” ((Next time)).


	2. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergio's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially moderating all of my comments. I'm in the process of updating all of my works to align with this adjustment. The freedom of speech is no longer a thing beneath my works but shout out to the "guest" reader who abused that **privilege** to the extent that I felt this a necessity.

It might have something to do with his mother’s clock, with how loud the ever-ticking hands of that grandfather clock sound within the room at this given moment, and he can't block it out for the life of him. He scoffs, shakes his head. He had told him that he hadn’t wanted the damn thing – “tell her to keep it in Madeira”, he had told him – and yet there it stands, seemingly in sheer defiance of his wishes but even he must admit that it seems rather petty a cause. It might have something to do with that fight that they had last week, the one they didn’t get to see through as metal had crumbled against asphalt, as a friend had found himself in dire need of their support at his bedside within an emergency room. He – they had been swept under the rug as priorities shift and he can’t remember, no, not for for the life of him what had started that fight. He seldom ever does …but he only wishes that they had finished it, that he had pressed for its finality and then perhaps, maybe... The smile, once holding his features to tell a heart wrenching story of disbelief, weakens and shrinks and he can feel, he feels too much as the salty wet of his eyes overwhelms his otherwise rigid composure. He was swept under the rug but even then, even then he understood. Even then he understands but this…? It might have something to do with that smile, with that look that had only ever been meant for him in the years prior, with that laugh that had always been preserved for a time when they were alone, with those tears that had always been meant for his shoulders. Had only ever been, had always been ((had, had, had)). He isn’t sure of when that line had been crossed, isn’t sure of when the nozzle was supposed to have clicked to full, he just knows that this…? This had to start somewhere – ((but did it or was this always the way that things…?)) – and this…? “This just isn’t working for me,” and that’s ((enough)) …enough to allow the burning within his chest to escape in a river of salty moisture … enough to propel him forward, to this part: the part where he admits his defeat. ((Had?)) Enough. “I’ve had enough.”

Shaking his head, he turns away from the other, silently wondering why he’s even bothered with words as it’s obvious that he… This conversation – if he can even call it that – was just a courtesy but he should have just, he should have just thrown all of his things outside, should have set his things on fire, torn them to shreds.... or should have placed them outside within a box. He should have just left a note on the refrigerator and checked into a hotel for the evening, he should have just left. He should have just… He draws in a breath as deep as the Pacific, counts to an unspecified number until his composure finds him, and continues his meal preparations for the following day, continues slicing carrots and celery, anything within arm’s reach while waiting, waiting, waiting for words that never come. He silently wonders why he’s even bothered.

((“What can I do?)) and it flashes by him but it’s there, was there. It flashes by but in that instant, in that moment he wants to place himself within two centimeters of the peak of the other’s face, to scream at the top of his lungs until the other is rendered deaf, wants to wrap his hands around his throat and strangle him because the audacity of this man is something unparalleled, his nescience knows no bounds. ((This mother—)) He knows that Cristiano knows exactly what he’s looking for, knows the words he wants – no! – the words he needs to hear right now, the things he needs to feel. Another breath drawn and another vegetable on the chopping block, a frustrated chuckle escaping his lips as he shakes his head once more in disbelief. He had wanted nothing more than for the other to speak with him, to tell him and to feel with him and yet he’s always found himself on the wrong side of a closed door, listening to the abrupt sound a dial tone when all he had ever wanted to be was present, available… but not anymore. No, not anymore. He’s had enough. He had wanted Cristiano to try then, he had needed him to try. He doesn’t care for the effort now; no, it’s too little too late and an emotion, emotions lose value when not freely given.

((“Are you sure that there isn’t anything I can do")) and all he can see is red. There is plenty that he could have done, plenty that he could have said; he holds all of the answers but he simply chooses, Cristiano simply chooses not to accept them, not to accept him. It’s as if… and red, red, red. Instead of words, instead of saying everything he wants and needs to say, instead of saying the things he swears he’s said on repeat for the past month – fuck! - year... On impulse, he throws the onion he has been working on in the direction of the forward, misses his head by an inch but only because the other had just flinched. "Fuck you, Cris." He’s Sergio-fucking-Ramos. Of course, he’s sure.

He finishes with his meal prep in silence, though his mind and body scream for some kind, any kind of action. He finishes formulating his meal schedule to work around his training and gym schedules, nevermind the fact that it takes him twice as long, and he's starting on his laundry when Cristiano finally informs him that he’ll be upstairs, packing his things. It is in this moment that he forgets. He forgets what he’s doing. He forgets what is happening – hell, he may have even forgotten his own name – because all he can think about in this moment, all he can hear and process are those words, those words being said in that way. He knows and appreciates them for what they are – they are what he has asked for, they are him being heard and understood for once – but he’s focused on everything that they aren’t. They are neither dejected nor disturbed, are neither hesitant nor questioning, those words. They simply are and that, that simply bothers him. That simply breaks him. ((When did I lose you)) but he comes up empty, has already declared himself beyond his threshold but he hopes, prays that his attempt at indifference is at least half as decent as Cristiano’s impassive showing. It’s incredible, intangible that he can be so angry, that he can feel so hurt and that he, that Cris can be… He chokes it down, refuses to engage in that same conversation and he settles for a simple nod of the head, tosses the laundry basket down as he falls into the clutches of his own sofa and flips on the television, staring blankly at the flickering images before him.

The sounds of drawers sliding open and banging to a close. The sounds of footsteps running up the stairs, dragging down the stairs, approaching and fading… until the sound of a suitcase rolling across the floor, until the sound of the front door opening and closing without a word further exchanged, until... nothing. This is the part that he hates the most: this is the part where the “too full” becomes “too empty”. This is the part where they fall apart, where they shatter. This is the part where all that they held, where all that they hold spills and dissolves to nothing. This is the coffee pot crashing against the kitchen tiles.

“What have I done,” and he rounds his eyes as his whispers echo throughout the hollows of his home, as his own words find him in something of a scream to remind him that he is ((alone)). His eyes widen further still, his breaths shorten as the air surrounding him seems too thick to breathe, as the world spins a little too quickly on its axis, as the gravity pulls with a bit much force. He isn’t here, he isn’t in this moment… He isn’t until he is, isn’t until the sound of his doorbell reverberates off of the walls to anchor him back down again and even then, even then he can’t think to move, refuses to move… For a moment, just a moment, he refuses to be, refuses to exist until he hears Cristiano shouting his name from the other side of the door and he hates... ((He’s back)). He hates that his heart flutters at the sound, hates that it swells with the hope he’d sworn he’d abandoned, and he needs to take a moment or two, a moment to compose himself. He hates that his soul becomes clouded and cramped with potentials and possibility, hates that his heart soars as his mind becomes flooded and drowned by the realities and cynicisms… hates that he finds ground as the latter wins over the two, as Cristiano smiles apologetically with a thumb pointed towards the car in his shadow.

He shakes his head but knows what this is and that’s enough, enough to make way for the hope he'd desperately fought to forget, and so he pretends he knows nothing of batteries and their terminals, pretends he knows nothing of that glint in the other's eye, pretends because what if, maybe. He smiles as much as he tries not to, but won't dare to corner Cristiano with this because maybe, just maybe this will be the moment when he…?  …and they’re laughing beneath the hood of a too expensive car, touching things Cristiano has no business touching, and he wonders why this can’t be enough, wonders why everything can’t be this easy? They could confront all of their problems like this – together, let one another in even if only to help the one out and then maybe, just maybe… They could stay here, in this moment, or they could bring it with them, within them. If only… They could… and he becomes overwhelmed by the possibility, lost in the prospect of ‘them’ before being harshly torn away from it by the reality as he recalls, as he remembers all-so suddenly. ((What have I done…)) but his pride shoves aside his reservations, removes his doubts and squares his shoulders. He digs his phone out of his pocket just as Cristiano reconnects the terminals, feigns surprise as the car starts and sees Cristiano off with the sound of applause… as he breaks from the inside out. This is the part where he takes it all back. The lights can flicker but that doesn't mean the electricity is out. The car can fishtail but they can stay on course. Maybe... 

It only takes him ten minutes to find himself in the hold of two strong arms, ten minutes to find the ear of a too strong friend and he succeeds in spilling the contents of his heart before the tea kettle whistles, manages a weak smile as bright eyes find him. He isn’t sure of what he takes greater comfort in, isn’t sure if he’s found a greater warmth in having been heard or in not having to be alone but the specifics, the specifics don’t bother him as much anymore. The tea is sweet on his tongue but Iker’s words are sweeter as they find him, his voice calming in a way incomparable to the things of this earth. He can make a tragedy sound like a blessing and so he nods as phrases like “a little too passionate” find him, smiles his confessions through his tears as he’s softly accused of being “a bit impulsive” and “emotionally overwhelming”. Gentle touches and warm words, stretches of silence as not every emotion has been defined and tied to a word, can only be felt and he needs, he needs to feel. He sobs in the warm embrace as a comedy paints the screen of his television, scoffs as Meg Ryan falls in love with Tom Hanks and Hugh Jackman before breaking down and calling it quits. This is the part where Iker removes the phone from his hand. This is the part where his keys are hidden and the passcodes on his computer are changed and he can’t… because maybe...

The sun goes down but a million, a billion more fill the night sky and he accepts this as life. This is his proof, this is the undeniable truth that there is no such thing as “one of” but he can’t let go, clings desperately to the idea of “one for” as much as he knows he shouldn’t. A week goes by, two and he can longer deny that they’re not the same, they’re not him and as much as Iker tells him that this is for the best, as much as Iker attempts to pull his “helplessly romantic ideas of love” to ground is as much as he pushes. It’s been three weeks and he’s still as hopeless as he is hopeful. Every one of them as bright and as promising as the last, none as bright and as promising as what he’d already been given and he can no longer deny that he hasn’t a clue of what he’s doing. Iker laughs as he confesses as much and he smiles as the same old asks the same old, answers with the same old “...distressed jeans and over-worn Converse”. It’s been four weeks and he’s abandoned strange faces for stranger foods, has traded his cardio regime in for hours on weights, but the only weight that challenges him falls to his shoulders, falls on him and he can’t... He doesn’t. This is the part where he admits a mistake had been made. This is the part where he picks up his phone because maybe... 

It’s been thirty-two days and his palms are sweating. His palms are sweating, and people are watching, and he is an absolute mess. He can’t stand the sight of a mirror, can’t brave himself to come to face with the image it holds and he’s had enough. ((Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do)). His palms are sweating and each breath fills his lungs with more instability than the last, and he isn’t sure of how much longer he can go on like this. If you didn’t know him, if you passed by him on the street, you’d take one look at him and whisper, ‘this is what withdrawal looks like’; if you knew him, you’d probably say much of the same. Iker says as much, though his eyes are weighted with understanding, his touch assuring because ‘at least you tried’ and he hates that he has. Iker’s lips move as he makes to say more, his lips move but words are never found as he tries and fails but if he’s honest – and honest he is – he must confess that he isn’t sure if he’s grateful or frustrated… but he’s here. He’s at this point, he’s at the part where his fingertips dance across a screen, where a warm voice finds him from the other side to lure him back home. He can’t say why he let this happen in the first place, but maybe, perhaps…

His senses feel heightened and he’s almost certain that he comes across as paranoid, is assured that he does as an older woman who introduces herself – “’I’m sorry to disturb you’ is what I would typically say, but you seem disturbed already. I’m Ella. Are you alright” – confirms as much. A forced smile and an awkward exchange but he can’t find the strength to worry about appearances; he left his pride in the sliding drawer of the end table at home, left it abandoned because he needs to assure himself that Cristiano knows, truly knows that ((“there is something you can do”)) and even if that something, even if that something hurts beyond his darkest imagines he needs to know, deserves to know or he can’t, doesn’t… They decide on coffee, set a time for later in the afternoon but he’s not worried that it’s only thirteen past eleven – no, his worries fall on time not yet known and times left to dust but even then, he isn’t granted enough of the present to dwell and to dream though he isn’t all that troubled with being brought to ground. He feels the warmth of his smile before he ever finds it, feels the weight of his gaze before he ever discovers those soul confining windows; he’s early, too, and that, that’s enough – enough for can, enough for try. They decide on coffee but he takes the hot chocolate, softly smirks as he takes the chamomile tea while accepting that look because – ((yes, it’s good to see you like this, too)) – maybe… He sits across from him but, after all this time, across is so far, too far and he isn’t sure that he can – but he gives him that smile and looks at him with those eyes and it’s enough – enough for can, enough for try – enough and so he slides onto the chair just beside the other in a manner almost cautious. He blushes softly above an even softer smile as a knowing look finds him, soaks in the moment and the feeling of being on the end of this look, from this man before he dares an apology. Tears fall as words part from lips, as minds connect with hearts. If only you… If only we… If only, if only, if only until it all falls to the table before them, until he has laid himself bare before the other. Until his hand falls gently against that of the other. Until his gaze falls to and into the soul filled eyes of the other. Until he falls – completely, helplessly. Perhaps... “…and how, uh, how are you?” Maybe...

It’s just a moment but he sees it, it’s there – the want, the need, the desire to... It’s almost a perfect mirror of all that he saw in Iker’s expression earlier in the morning. It’s a perfect mirror of the want, the need, the desire to say, to do ((what, what, what)). There’s so much in that look that rings in foreign, so much there that he doesn’t know but he needs to because perhaps ((it’s me)), maybe ((it’s you)). He needs to know what he’s coming up against – what, who – and even if it’s… He needs to know where he keeps going wrong, needs to know even if he’s, even if… because until he knows, until he’s heard it, all he’ll ever have is a perhaps and a maybe. He needs him to know that he can be present, that he can be in this with him but only if… but he look fades as quickly as it came, gaze filling with something resembling sadness and confusion, and he doesn’t, he can’t… ((“I miss you”)) …but he hopes.

He hopes for a day, prays for a time that looks a lot like next time; he hopes for eventually. Eventually that thought, eventually that want, that desire, eventually that need will find a word, will find the right word. Eventually that word will find the path from his mind to the part of those beautiful lips, from the part of his lips and into their reality. Eventually he will trust him enough, he will love him enough to confide in him the truths of his emotions, the purity of his delicacies and vulnerabilities, the underlying tones of that look. He’s as sure as he isn’t that he can hear them, that he can understand but one day… One day, on a day not so far from today, the words will slip and Cristiano will know that he’s here, that he’s always been here – waiting. He doesn’t know, he can’t know… but one day he will. One day, in a time that looks a lot like next time, he’ll consider the weight of his smile and the fill of his eyes, and he’ll put their wants to rest on a back burner to their needs because whether he’ll ever be ready for it or not, whether he wants his truths or not... Eventually.

…but for now -- he shakes his head, smiles weakly as the tears threaten to spill from the lacerations of his soul -- for now, “that’s enough for me”.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paragraphs focalized beneath the hood of a car are everything in understanding the gist of this work as a whole. I typically don't feel the need to point these things out but, given that obvious intent was missed within the first POV (and I mean hundreds of miles off), I felt it crucial to bring attention to a small detail that brings the underlying issue of this relationship to light.


End file.
